


Three Points where Two Lines Meet

by luckie_dee



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mild Angst with a happy ending, Misunderstandings, Non-NHL!Jack, Two Person Love Triangle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 19:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17127326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckie_dee/pseuds/luckie_dee
Summary: When Jack makes the decision to invite his parents to visit for the holidays, he wants to show them he's doing just fine in his new life by cooking them dinner. Luckily, he finds a food blog whose owner is more than willing to offer advice. And then there's the cute guy at the grocery store. And Shitty won't stop trying to set him up with his girlfriend's roommate...





	1. Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writingonpostcards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingonpostcards/gifts).



> **Author's Note** : Written for the lovely [17piesinseptember](http://17piesinseptember.tumblr.com/) for [Swawesome Santa](http://swawesomesanta.tumblr.com/) 2018! Inspired loosely by the second prompt on the list provided [here](http://whatthehellisahoechlin.tumblr.com/post/178900598636/mickeyed-fic-where-they-know-each-other-but). I hope you enjoy and that you (and anyone else who's reading this!) has a very happy holiday season ♥ Title from Alt-J's “Tessellate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few quick notes: as you'll learn, Jack did not go to Samwell. Shitty didn't either; he went to Harvard for both undergrad and law school. Bitty did go to Samwell, as did the rest of the crew.

Jack Zimmermann has no idea what it means to scald milk.

He reads the recipe again: _1 cup whole milk, scalded and cooled to lukewarm_. It doesn’t make sense. Milk is liquid.

Well, just because he isn’t sure what to do with it doesn’t mean he can’t buy it. Jack quickly jots down the other ingredients — there’s nothing else that’s too foreign to him — and heads to the grocery store.

***

Although the process takes him longer than it probably should, Jack is able to find all the things on the list except yeast. He finally gives up and asks an employee for help after three fruitless trips up and down the baking aisle. She’s young, probably working a high school job, and she acts bored but polite as she takes a break from stocking baking soda to point it out, high on the top shelf above messy rows of chocolate chip bags. Jack had been looking for a bottle or a box, and he definitely wasn’t expecting a short strip of paper packets, each containing two and one quarter teaspoons of yeast.

He wonders, even as he thanks the young woman for her help, how that became the standard measure for yeast.

More importantly, what is he _doing_?

As recently as two weeks ago, Jack couldn’t have imagined himself shopping for the ingredients to make — per the recipe — [Pumpkin Bread Rolls with Cinnamon Butter](https://www.handletheheat.com/pumpkin-bread-rolls-cinnamon-butter/), but here he is, with a full cart. It’s ambitious, he knows, especially for someone who’s only attempted brownies. From a mix. Twice. With varying results.

But he’d dug his own grave three nights ago, when, on the phone with his father, he’d uttered those fateful words: « _Would you and Maman like to visit for the holidays?_ »

And his father had paused, then said, « _I’m sure she would, son. She’d love to see your new place, and see that you’ve settled in._ » And he’d added, conspiratorially, « _You know she worries about you_ », which, of course, was his way of saying that they both did.

That leaves Jack with no choice but learning how to make a delicious Christmas dinner so that he can _show_ his parents that he’s settled in, and that he’s doing all right. That he’s a functional adult who can even cook food. That uprooting his entire life and starting over — again — wasn’t as bad of a decision as it might have seemed.

And he only has six months to figure out how to do just that.

Despite having the odds stacked against him, Jack is feeling confident. The brownie mix experiments are both at least five years in the rearview mirror; he’s older and wiser now. He can certainly follow directions, and that’s what recipes are, right? He’s even found a blog that’s well-written, plentifully illustrated with pictures, and teeming with tips and tricks. He can do this.

Jack buys the groceries.

***

Ever since he’d infamously missed the NHL draft, Jack has had a love-hate relationship with hockey. At first, he wasn’t sure how to be without it: hockey was what he did, who he _was_. Even as he’d recovered from his overdose, he’d been unable to stay away, accepting a position as the assistant coach of a peewee team. It was good, he thought, and his therapist agreed, to reframe hockey as something fun and constructive. Nonthreatening. And it had been, mostly.

He’d gone to college in Minnesota, where hockey was inescapable, even though he made the gut-wrenching decision not to play himself. He continued to coach, through and after graduation, and he’d started work at a local sports complex thereafter, not only coaching but helping to schedule and staff the rink. It hadn’t bothered him too much when he saw that familiar ruthless drive in some of the older boys, the competitiveness and the pressure they were under. The pressure they put on themselves. Sleep just came harder some nights than others, that was all. _Everyone’s job is stressful_ , Jack told himself.

And his father had been there, inextricably tangled up with it all: he’d offered coaching tips, assured Jack that _of course_ it was okay if he didn’t play himself, and showed up at enough games that the players on Jack’s teams had stopped being nervous around him. Jack’s not sure how he would relate to Bad Bob if they didn’t have hockey between them.

He’d had Camilla too, for support. They’d started dating during their sophomore year of college, and kept on going after they graduated. Jack knew that his parents expected him to marry her. Hell, he might be proposing to her this Christmas if things hadn’t changed.

But they had.

***

To prepare for his first attempt at making the Pumpkin Bread Rolls with Cinnamon Butter, Jack does a Google search for _how to scald milk_. He gets a bevy of results: how to do it on the stove, how to do it in the microwave. Some of the methods require him to use a candy thermometer, which he doesn’t own. There are even articles that tell him why scalding milk is never actually necessary in the age of pasteurization. (At which point he has to forcefully stop himself from detouring into reading about the history of dairy production.) As a whole, the experience leaves him better educated but more confused.

Finally, mired in indecision, Jack sends an email to the owner of the blog where he’d found the recipe. He gets as far as typing the word _Dear_ before he gets stuck. A quick double-check confirms that the blog’s owner doesn’t reveal an identity, and its name — _Life’s a Peach and Then Some Pie_ — doesn’t offer any clues. Jack backspaces.

> _To: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_  
>  _From: jl82901@gmail.com_
> 
> _Hi,_
> 
> _I’m trying to make your pumpkin bread rolls, and I’m wondering if I need to scald the milk? I read some articles that say it isn’t necessary. If I do, what’s the best way?_
> 
> _Thanks for your help,_

Jack signs his own name, but then decides that anonymity is probably for the best, especially when the person on the other end of the email isn’t offering up a name either.

_J_ , he types.

***

Jack doesn’t really expect a response. He won’t have a chance to try the recipe for at least the next two days, and if he doesn’t have an answer by then, he’s going to scald the milk according to some instructions he finds in WikiHow.

He has a return email the next morning.

> _To: jl82901@gmail.com_  
>  _From: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_
> 
> _Good morning! Thank you for your interest in my blog!_
> 
> _Bless your sweet heart, of course you should scald the milk. I wouldn’t put it in the recipe otherwise :) And if you don’t, my grandmother will start rolling in her grave, and none of us wants that!_
> 
> _It’s true that you don’t need to scald the milk for your health, but your pumpkin rolls will be lighter and springier if you do. I recommend using the stovetop. You can scald milk in the microwave, but it’s not much faster. You can keep a better eye on things on the stovetop, too, and the milk will heat more evenly._
> 
> _Use a heavy-bottomed pan, if you have one. Heat the milk over medium-low heat and stir frequently with a wooden or silicone spoon. You’ll want to watch and take the pan off the heat when there are bubbles around the edge and the milk is steaming. If it gets to boiling, you’ve gone too far and you’ll have to start over! Oh, and use whole milk! It works best. If you’re worried about your diet, use skim._
> 
> _Let the milk cool to 105-110 degrees before adding it to the recipe. If you don’t have a candy thermometer, about 10-15 minutes of cooling should do it. You can measure out the other ingredients while you wait._
> 
> _I hope this is helpful! Let me know how the rolls turn out — I love to see what people make from the blog._
> 
> _Good luck,_  
>  _lifesapeachblog_

That seems doable, Jack thinks. He gives it the old college try.

***

Two weeks later, Jack strides triumphantly into the space that he and Marty rent for their photography studio. There’s a small reception area, a larger room that they use as an actual studio, and the small office behind it, which is where he find Marty. He’s camped out in front of his computer, editing the wedding that Jack shot the previous weekend, from the looks of it.

Jack walks over to him, places a Tupperware container confidently at his elbow, and pulls back the lid. “Check this out.”

Marty glances into the tub, then back up at Jack. “Chocolate chip cookies?” he asks, not sounding anywhere near as impressed as he should.

“Yeah,” Jack replies, nudging them farther in his direction. “I made them.”

It might have been too soon for that particular announcement; a dubious expression spreads across Marty’s face. “Look, kid, you know I want to support this cooking hobby you’ve got going on but… these aren’t going to be like those pumpkin things, are they?”

Jack grimaces. Okay, so the pumpkin bread rolls hadn’t been a resounding success — in fact, it would be more accurate to describe them as dense. And gummy. Still, Jack hadn’t wanted them to go to waste, so he’d passed a few of the misshapen, too-salty lumps off on Marty, who had accepted them gamely enough at the time. “They weren’t _that_ bad,” Jack protests.

“They were pretty bad.”

“Fine,” Jack relents. “But these —” he rattles the Tupperware “—aren’t. Try one.”

Marty extracts a cookie and inspects it for a moment, then sniffs it speculatively.

Jack rolls his eyes. “Come on.”

He watches as closely as Marty takes a careful bite and chews. Jack had tried a cookie himself, of course, and it had seemed fine, but maybe his palate is just off. He’d eaten several of the pumpkin rolls, and he hadn’t thought they tasted _that_ bad. They were just… chewy.

Marty’s eyebrows slowly climb his forehead until he swallows and says, “Jack. Kiddo. I’m impressed. These are totally edible.”

Jack feels sweeping relief, even if the praise is mild; he’d never be able to cook a full meal if he couldn’t manage such a basic staple. “Thanks.”

“How the hell did you get from point A to point B?” Marty asks, mumbling around the rest of the cookie, which he’s already shoved in his mouth.

“Oh,” Jack says. “I have a, uh — a friend? Who told me that I should have started with something easier and gave me the recipe with some pointers.”

His stumbling over a particular word in his explanation doesn’t escape Marty’s notice. “A friend?” he asks archly.

Jack feels his face heat, much to his dismay and Marty’s amusement. “Just a friend,” he insists, even though it’s not exactly true. However, while Marty is imagining that Jack has something more, what he actually has is something far less — an anonymous presence online who’d been kind enough to answer some of Jack’s questions and offer some advice. And exchange a few more emails since then. Jack’s suddenly not sure if any of that is weird or not.

Marty watches him for a moment, and something of Jack’s discomfort must translate, because he turns back to the computer, snagging another cookie as he goes. “Whatever you say. The Hernandez family will be here at nine-thirty for their portrait, so you’re going to have to hustle if you want to get the lights set up before then.”

“ _Crisse_ ,” Jack mutters, glancing at his watch. He makes to recover the Tupperwere, but Marty scoots it toward himself.

“You can leave that here for safekeeping,” he says.

Jack smirks.

***

> _To: jl82901@gmail.com_  
>  _From: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_
> 
> _So? How did your coworker like the cookies??_

Jack is surprised to see the message when he gets home, and he immediately feels contrite that he hadn’t answered it sooner. He doubts that Lifesapeach is waiting on pins and needles, but it seems rude that he hasn’t responded yet, when it’s over eight hours later. Some of the shine has probably come off of wondering whether the cookies were a success, at the very least. Maybe Jack should install email on his phone. He doesn’t know how to do that, exactly, but he successfully baked chocolate chip cookies. He can figure out anything.

In the meantime, he takes a swig of his protein shake and types out a reply.

> _To: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_  
>  _From: jl82901@gmail.com_
> 
> _Sorry I didn’t answer you sooner. Busy day._
> 
> _To answer your question, he said he really liked them, and I think he was being honest. If he was lying, he must have really wanted to spare my feelings, because he ate at least 5 of them._
> 
> _Thanks again for all your help. I’d probably be on my 4th or 5th batch of bad pumpkin rolls by now without it, and canceling my christmas plans. Now if all else fails I can just make chocolate chip cookies._

Jack snaps his laptop shut and doesn’t see the reply until the next morning.

> _To: jl82901@gmail.com_  
>  _From: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_
> 
> _Oh I’m so proud of you!! That’s wonderful news. But no pictures? :(_
> 
> _And hon, don’t you worry. We will work you back up to those pumpkin rolls. There’s plenty of time before December! What do you want to try next? Do you have a plan for your menu?_

The questions give Jack pause, and they roll around in the back of his head all day. The thing he most wants to make is a tourtiere, because it’s traditional and his father loves them. He’ll need something more to put on the table — something with vegetables maybe? And he’d tried the rolls because most meals start with bread, don’t they? It’s not so much a plan as it is a few ideas loosely held together with the vague idea of a meal.

> _To: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_  
>  _From: jl82901@gmail.com_
> 
> _The only plan I have is making tourtiere. My dad is from Quebec, and his mom used to make them every year for the holidays. I’m probably not ready to try that yet. I don’t know what to make to go with it either. Vegetables?_
> 
> _Here’s a picture of the cookies. There aren’t many left._

Not long after Jack takes the picture, there aren’t any left.

> _To: jl82901@gmail.com_  
>  _From: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_
> 
> _Those look amazing!! Gosh, it looks like you got the texture just right. You softened the butter, didn’t you? Just like my MooMaw used to, but hers got that way from sitting out in the Georgia heat!_
> 
> _I say this kindly: you aren’t quite ready to try making a tourtiere just yet. Step away from the pie crust recipes! I’ll find you a nice, easy casserole or stew recipe next, so you can get used to working with meat and potatoes. I’ll think about side dishes too!_

The correspondence is nice. It’s almost like having a friend, and, if Jack’s being honest with himself, those have been in short supply since he moved to Boston.

He opens up a new email and starts typing:

> _To: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_  
>  _To: jl82901@gmail.com_
> 
> _What’s a MooMaw?…_

***

One of the few friends Jack does have in Boston is an enthusiastic Harvard law student who goes by Shitty, for reasons that he has yet to explain. He frequents the same gym as Jack, and Jack still isn’t exactly sure how the friendship happened. One minute, Jack had a brash, mustachioed guy offering to spot him on the bench press, and the next, he had a devoted friend for life. They’ve been meeting up regularly to work out since early spring, though not as often over the past several weeks now that the bar is just a few weeks away.

In fact, Jack is surprised when he gets a text from Shitty, offering to meet up the next day. When he arrives at the gym, he finds Shitty talking loudly with (or at, Jack isn’t sure) the smoothie bar attendant, wearing a muscle t-shirt emblazoned with _The Notorious R.G.B._ and a picture of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Jack shakes his head; he has no idea where Shitty finds these things. “Hey, shouldn’t you be studying?” he calls over.

“Jack-o! My man!” Shitty yells, almost certainly not calling him some variation of the word _fucker_ because there’s a woman with a little girl standing a few feet away. “I need a break, dude. There comes a point when you can’t cram any more shit in, you know? Stuff!” he quickly amends as the woman glares at him. As she drags the child away, Shitty winces and hisses at Jack, “Fuck, dude. I was trying so hard.” The attendant smirks, then quickly tries to hide it.

“I know,” Jack says. “You ready?”

“Jack, my friend, I was born ready,” he replies. To the attendant, he shoots a finger-gun and a “see you later, my guy!”

They swing by the locker room first, to stow their duffel bags. Jack pulls a plastic container out of his and shoves it in Shitty’s direction. “Here.”

Shitty takes it and raises an eyebrow. “What is this?”

“[Vanilla cupcakes](https://beyondfrosting.com/2018/05/07/moist-vanilla-cupcakes/),” Jack says.

Shitty’s mouth drops open.

When he doesn’t otherwise respond, Jack adds, “With vanilla buttercream frosting.”

Still agape, Shitty cracks the lid and peers inside. “Holy fuck, it really is. Did you _make_ these?”

His astonishment isn’t exactly flattering, but Jack shrugs it off as he changes his shoes. “Yup.”

Shitty already has a cupcake out and he takes a giant bite, leaving smears of frosting in his mustache. “Dude! This is pretty fucking good. I mean, I can think of _someone_ who could find something wrong with them —” he’s muttering now and Jack has no idea what he’s talking about, but that’s a pretty common occurrence “— but I think they’re a solid four and a half stars.”

Jack shrugs and straightens back up. “They look kind of weird.” His frosting skills, as it turn out, leave a lot to be desired. And he didn’t have any decorations to put on them.

“Who cares when they taste like this?” Shitty marvels, and Jack just shrugs again. Shitty polishes off the cupcake during the walk to the weight room, and as they settle in to start their rotation, he asks, “So, what’s the occasion?”

“For what?” Jack grunts, not breaking pace on the chest press.

“The _cupcakes_ , man. It’s not even my birthday.”

“Oh.” Jack finishes a set and relaxes. “I’m learning to cook, I guess? And bake. I invited my parents down for Christmas, and I want to make them a meal while they’re here.”

Shitty’s staring at him for the second time that day. “That is a lot of information all at once, you mysterious fucker.”

Jack immediately feels like curling in on himself, so he starts his second set on the chest press instead. “Is it?”

“I mean, we can start with the fact that you haven’t talked to your parents in, what, a year?”

“Thats… not true…” Jack says between reps. “I talk to them… all the time… and I went… to Montreal… for Christmas.”

“Okay, fine, but you haven’t let them visit you here.”

Jack lets the weights fall again. He stares down at his shoes. “I don’t know. I just feel good about being here, and I want them to see that I’m okay.”

“You don’t have to learn to cook to do that,” Shitty points out, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

“I know.”

There’s a moment of silence before Shitty blurts out, “Fuck, brah, I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to push.”

Jack shoots him a wan smile. “It’s okay. But yeah, maybe let’s just work out.”

“Cross my heart,” Shitty says, doing so. “No lawyer talk from you, no parent talk from me.” They switch machines, and Shitty continues, with the air of someone who’s very deliberately changing the subject, “Although, if you want to learn to cook, Lardo’s roommate —”

“Shits,” Jack interrupts, his voice a low warning. It’s not the first time Shitty has mentioned The Roommate, as Jack has come to think of him.

“I’m just saying!”

“No.”

“I think you’d really like him.”

“No.”

Shitty huffs. “Brah, I’m just _saying_. I know you haven’t been on a date since you moved to Boston — which is _fine_ , of course — but if you ever want to…”

“I promise I will let you know if I want you to set me up with this guy,” Jack says, but it’s only to placate him. If there’s anything he wants to talk about less than his parents, it’s his love life, or lack thereof. Sure, he and Camilla had broken up over a year ago, and even though they’d been together for several before that, Jack is well enough over the relationship that he’d be ready to date again.

But as much as he enjoys Shitty’s company, Jack isn’t sure he’s ready for Shitty to set him up on a date.

***

Jack is picking up the ingredients for a pork tamale pie — which has a cornbread biscuit topping; lifesapeach hasn’t yet allowed him to try an actual pie crust of any sort — when he finds that his usual grocery store doesn’t carry a key one: there’s no ground pork, no matter how many times he circles the meat department.

He glances down at his half-finished list, gives the butcher case one more despairing look, and sighs. There’s a fancier market a few blocks away; hopefully, he can finish up there.

Luckily, there _is_ ground pork on offer at the other store, and Jack also grabs the eggs that he needs for the recipe and a few other staples. He browses a bit and ends up with some organic, grass-fed protein shakes and a couple kinds of energy bars that he hasn’t seen before too. Then he gets in line.

He’s fumbling for his wallet and doesn’t pay much attention to the checker until an unexpected accent reaches his ears — a sweet, lilting drawl that says, “Hey there! Did you find everything you were lookin’ for?”

Jack’s eyes dart up and land on — well. They land on a guy, one who’s very cute. He’s short, and blond, and he has a friendly face, wide brown eyes, and a name tag that reads _Eric_. “Oh, um. Yeah. Thanks,” Jack says, a beat too late. _Smooth_ , the ever-critical voice in his head pipes in.

“Good,” Eric replies, still beaming up at him. Then he seems to startle, and he begins ringing Jack’s groceries, his face pinking. The energy bars are first on the conveyor belt; Eric scans them rapidly, face still down. “Oh! I don’t eat a lot of store-bought protein bars, but these ones are real tasty, in a pinch.”

“I’ve never had them,” Jack says stupidly. He reaches for something else to add. “They look… good.”

Speaking of looking good, Eric peeks back up at him and smiles, more shyly this time. “You’ll like ‘em. And if you do, make sure you come back and try the other flavors. We’re the only store in the area that carries them.”

And god, Jack is rusty at this. He doesn’t know if he’s being flirted with or if Eric’s just trying to make a sale. If it’s the former, Jack doesn’t know how to respond — and if it’s the latter, it’s working. Finally, he settles on, “Thanks, I definitely will.” He manages to give Eric a smile of his own as he slides his credit card into the chip reader, and Eric’s widens a little.

It’s all fairly standard after that. Eric asks if he wants a receipt; Jack does. Jack takes his bags and thanks Eric again. Eric says, “Have a great day! Come see us again soon.”

Jack heads back to his apartment feeling dazed. He finds himself lingering over the interaction for the rest of the afternoon, but it slips into memory as the hours pass, especially once he takes a stab at the pork tamale pie. It’s tasty, if imperfect, and as soon as he takes the first bite, Jack just wants to email lifesapeach to tell him all about it. And he really doesn’t want to confront why the thought of sending an email to a still-anonymous someone who runs a food blog should bump being (possibly) flirted with by a cute guy in real life straight out of his head.

> _To: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_  
>  _From: jl82901@gmail.com_
> 
> _I made the pork tamale pie tonight, and I think it turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself. And I do. The only real problem I had was spreading the biscuit dough over the top. It got kind of messy and didn’t cover the whole thing. I attached a picture — any suggestions?_
> 
> _How did that monkey bread recipe turn out? I haven’t seen you post anything about it. I hope that’s not a bad sign._
> 
> _This might be a weird question, but what’s your name? I’ve been calling you lifesapeach in my head, but it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue._

***

> _To: jl82901@gmail.com_  
>  _From: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_
> 
> _Your tamale pie looks amazing!! I wouldn’t worry too much about the dough. Our pan sizes might be a little different. If it bothers you, you can make more of it. I can help you increase the recipe yield, if you want. But really, if you don’t have enough to cover the top, all that means is some of that delicious filling will bubble up around the outside. As for the messiness, well — practice makes perfect! :)_
> 
> _The monkey bread is NOT cooperating with me :/// Adding sprinkles to the dough is making it way too dry and crumbly. My roommate wouldn’t even eat the second batch. Maybe I should just give up, but I have a VISION._
> 
> _As for my name, I’m afraid that I don’t give out much personal information about myself online. It doesn’t have anything to do with you. I didn’t have it easy when I was growing up. The other boys used to pick on me a lot, and a couple years ago, some of my bullies stumbled on my vlog and started tormenting me all over again. I decided to start new but keep things a little more private. I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind._
> 
> _But since you’re J, I suppose you can call me B. (And if you put us together, you get… a joke that wouldn’t be very gentlemanly at all, would it?)_
> 
> _Talk soon,_  
>  _B_

Jack sits back after reading the email, a dull ache in his chest. Lifesapeach — B — has been nothing but a sunny, supportive presence in his life, and the idea that he (which he’d confirmed, hadn’t he? the “other boys”? “gentlemanly"?) had been bullied is heartbreaking, especially when it had happened again after B must have thought he was long past it all.

> _To: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_  
>  _From: jl82901@gmail.com_
> 
> _Hi B :-)_
> 
> _You don’t have to apologize. You definitely don’t have to share anything with me that you don’t want to. I’m happy to call you B. It’s much easier than lifesapeach._
> 
> _I didn’t have an easy time either, growing up, even though the other boys didn’t pick on me too much. I guess it’s not an easy time for a lot of people, and I wish it didn’t have to be that way. I’m sorry that you had to go through that. You seem like a really nice person, and you don’t deserve it._
> 
> _Is it weird that it’s comforting to know that someone who’s really good at baking still sometimes makes things that aren’t good? Not that I want you to make things that aren’t good, but it makes me feel a little better to know that I’m not the only one that messes things up. I’m sure you won’t be messing up for long though, and you’ll have that funfetti monkey bread recipe ready to go in no time. Maybe I’ll try it and share it with my coworker’s family — his kids would love it._
> 
> _J_
> 
> _PS — Why would JB not be gentlemanly? :-)_

Two smiley faces in one email has got to be some kind of record for Jack. He hits send before he can overthink it.

***

Jack feels closer to B after that — but it doesn’t stop him from going back to the fancier grocery store the next time he needs to buy food. He feels like there’s a spotlight shining on him as he walks in the door, and he very consciously doesn’t look anywhere near the checkout area, instead making a sharp left into the produce section. There aren’t any recipes on the docket, so Jack just grabs his usual fare: some vegetables, chicken breasts, eggs, pasta. On the way back to the front of the store, he does swing through the aisle with the protein bars, because the ones that Eric had commented on are pretty damn good.

His heart speeds a little as he heads to the checkout, no matter how many times he tells himself that Eric might not even be working. Maybe he’s not even employed there anymore; the day Jack met him could have been Eric’s last. He could live in Alaska by now. Or he could be working, but checking out a customer buying hundreds of dollars worth of groceries, leaving Jack no choice but to choose another register.

Or he could be right there, right in front of Jack, just finishing up with one person and an empty conveyor belt calling Jack’s name. Jack takes a deep breath and does his best to stroll up looking nonchalant.

Apparently, he has nothing to worry about. Eric bids the previous customer a cheery goodbye, and when he turns to greet Jack, something in his face sparks. “Oh! Hello! Welcome back,” he says with a grin that Jack can’t help returning.

“Hey,” he replies as Eric starts scanning his purchases, and then he realizes in a panic that he has nothing else to say.

Eric fills the silence for him, holding up one of the energy bars. “So, you did like them!”

“Yeah, they’re great. You were right.”

He wants to cringe at how boring he sounds, but Eric keeps smiling at him. “Which one was your favorite?”

Jack considers that. “Probably the maple donut.”

Eric looks surprised at that, his eyebrows arching. “Not what I was expecting. You must have quite a sweet tooth.”

“Not usually,” Jack admits.

Eric plucks a giant bag of salad from among Jack’s purchases and deadpans, “You don’t say.”

Jack chuckles and ducks his head as he fishes his wallet out of his pocket. “All right, you got me. I try to stay in shape.”

“Obviously,” Eric says, and then he freezes, his face going pink. “Oh, lord, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like — I just —”

“It’s okay,” Jack cuts in. He tilts his face back up, meeting Eric’s eyes and smiling with one side of his mouth. “You, uh — you don’t have to apologize. I mean, it was a compliment, right?”

Eric sucks in a breath as his shoulders sinking away from where they’d started to inch up toward his ears. His cheeks don’t get any less rosy, though. “It was definitely a compliment.”

“Well then, thank you,” Jack says as he slides his debit card into the chip reader. There’s probably a smoother way to respond, or maybe he should be returning the favor by complimenting something about Eric, but Jack can’t bring himself to care because Eric looks pleased in a way that’s relieved and surprised all at once. “Thank you,” he repeats as he accepts his receipt. “Have a good afternoon, Eric.”

“You too…?” he replies, the question clear in the uptilt of his voice.

Jack smiles. “Jack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [pumpkin bread rolls](https://www.handletheheat.com/pumpkin-bread-rolls-cinnamon-butter/) referenced in this chapter are DELICIOUS.
> 
> I have not made these [chocolate chip cookies](https://pinchofyum.com/the-best-soft-chocolate-chip-cookies), but I had the linked recipe in mind while I was writing the chapter.
> 
> I can vouch for these [vanilla cupcakes](https://beyondfrosting.com/2018/05/07/moist-vanilla-cupcakes/). They're super yummy, though I used a different frosting.
> 
> I _think_ this is the recipe for the [pork tamale pie](https://www.americastestkitchen.com/recipes/3245-skillet-tamale-pie) that Jack is shopping for. I can't tell, though, because you need a subscription to view it. (I have it in a cookbook.) If so, it's delicious.
> 
> Lastly, the [funfetti monkey bread](https://iambaker.net/funfetti-monkey-bread/) recipe that Bitty talks about is here. I... had some problems making it.


	2. Autumn

One afternoon, as summer melts into fall, Jack finds himself in his kitchen looking at his assembled ingredients: flour, sugar, salt, and ice water. His butter is cubed and chilling in the refrigerator, according to the instructions B had sent him. Today’s the day: Jack is going to make a pie crust.

More accurately, he’s going to make a quiche crust, and he’s not sure if he’s more nervous about that or the fact that B is going to chat with him to walk him through it. Or maybe he’s excited for both things. Either way, Jack’s stomach is twisting hard.

His laptop is on the counter next to everything else, and precisely at the agreed-upon time, a message pops up:

 **lifesapeachblog**  
Hi J! Are you ready to make the best pie crust you’ve ever eaten? :D

 **jl82901**  
hi B  
I’m ready to make something, not sure if it’ll be that

 **lifesapeachblog**  
Well, not with that attitude, it won’t!  
Where’s your self confidence?

 **jl82901**  
I knew I forgot something at the store

 **lifesapeachblog**  
Very funny, mister  
Luckily you’re learning from an expert… ready to get started?

Under B’s tutelage, Jack works carefully through the process, using the new tools he’d purchased specifically for today: the pastry cutter, the rolling pin, and the silicone mat. It’s infinitely more difficult to roll the dough to a consistent thickness than Jack had anticipated, and then he’s faced with the prospect of lifting the entire sheet to cover his brand new pie plate. B links him to some videos that make it look like nothing at all to roll the dough onto the pin and then unfurl it over the pan. For Jack, it isn’t quite so simple.

Finally, though, he’s ready to slide his (uneven) pie crust (with a few cracks and patches) into the fridge to chill. That accomplished, he moves his laptop to the table and sits gratefully down.

 **jl82901**  
okay, the dough is chilling  
for better or for worse

 **lifesapeachblog**  
Oh hon, it’ll be for the better, just you wait and see

 **jl82901**  
I don’t know

 **lifesapeachblog**  
It’s going to be great! Do you think my first pie crust was perfect?

 **jl82901**  
I suppose not

 **lifesapeachblog**  
Of course, I was 5 when I made it ;)

 **jl82901**  
ouch

 **lifesapeachblog**  
Not… well, not however old you are

 **jl82901**  
28 as of last month

 **lifesapeachblog**  
That’s a good age

 **jl82901**  
almost as good as…

 **lifesapeachblog**  
23

Huh. That’s a little younger than Jack was expecting, but it’s not out of the realm of possibility. For what, Jack’s not exactly sure.

 **jl82901**  
that’s a good age too  
unless you want to rent a car

 **lifesapeachblog**  
Well luckily, I don’t! ;D  
So, why are you making a big holiday meal? Having a party?

 **jl82901**  
no, my parents are visiting

 **lifesapeachblog**  
Is this a family tradition? You cook them a nice dinner? I love family traditions!

 **jl82901**  
no, not at all  
I’ve never cooked them anything in my life

 **lifesapeachblog**  
What made you want to give it a try?

Jack reads the question, then reads it again, his fingers hovering over the keys. It would be easy enough to lie, to tell B that it’s going to be their Christmas present for the year. But suddenly, he doesn’t want to.

 **jl82901**  
it’s kind of a long story

 **lifesapeachblog**  
That dough won’t be chilled for a while if you want to tell it

 **jl82901**  
well  
I made some pretty big life changes last year  
quit my job and moved halfway across the country for a completely new career  
ended a relationship with someone I’d been with for years  
everyone thought we’d get married  
hell, I thought we’d get married  
and I think it worried my parents 

**lifesapeachblog**  
Only because they love you, I’m sure

 **jl82901**  
they do  
I know they do  
but our relationship can be… rocky  
especially with my dad  
he really wanted me to follow in his footsteps  
and ever since I decided not to, I think he hasn’t really known how to talk to me

Jack notices distantly that his hands are shaking. What is he _doing_? There are only three people in his life with whom he’s shared more about his parents then a gruff _we don’t get along that great_ : his old therapist in Minnesota, his new therapist in Boston, and Camilla. He realizes, though, with a shock, that he doesn’t feel bad. There’s some relief in being able to let some of the hurt out to someone who’s part friend, part anonymous. Somehow, it feels safe.

There are several responses from B.

 **lifesapeachblog**  
Oh hon, I’m so sorry  
That’s so hard  
Rest assured that if anyone can relate to having a strained relationship with your parents, it’s me  
But I don’t mean to make this about me  
So you invited them to visit?

 **jl82901**  
I did  
it’ll be the first time they’re here and seeing me in my new place  
I guess I just want to show them that I’m doing well  
because I really am

 **lifesapeachblog**  
I’m so happy to hear that :D

 **jl82901**  
I love my new job  
I’m making some friends  
haven’t been dating anyone new but hopefully that won’t bother my parents  
I just hope they see that things are good

 **lifesapeachblog**  
I’m sure they will  
Whether or not you can cook  
But if you are going to learn to cook, I’m glad you found my blog

 **jl82901**  
I am too

 **lifesapeachblog**  
:D

 **jl82901**  
and I’m sorry you’ve had a hard time with your parents too

 **lifesapeachblog**  
Well, that’s what happens when your daddy is a football coach  
I’m sure he would have loved having a son who played football  
But instead he got one who likes figure skating and baking

There’s a pause. Jack can see that B is typing, but nothing comes through for long seconds. He’s just about to say something himself when —

 **lifesapeachblog**  
And is gay

Oh.

Jack can’t say he’s surprised, exactly. He hadn’t wanted to stereotype, but he’d drawn the conclusion anyway. He hastens to type out a response, not wanting to leave the admission hanging.

 **jl82901**  
I’m really sorry, B  
everyone should have parents who accept them for who they are

 **lifesapeachblog**  
<3  
I’ve never really told them right out  
I’m scared to  
But I’m sure they know, or at least suspect

 **jl82901**  
you could do what I did, and just get walked in on  
the only thing I needed to tell them after that was that I liked girls too

 **lifesapeachblog**  
Oh my lord, they did not

 **jl82901**  
oh they did, when I was about 17 years old

 **lifesapeachblog**  
How did they take it?

 **jl82901**  
surprisingly well  
I know I’m lucky there

 **lifesapeachblog**  
Well, I’m not seeing anyone either, so I’m not sure that plan will work

 **jl82901**  
you don’t need to be seeing anyone to get walked in on :-)

 **lifesapeachblog**  
GASP  
What kind of boy do you take me for??

Jack chuckles, trying not to read too much into the cool relief he feels trickling into his veins. It would be ridiculous, after all, to be jealous over the idea of an imaginary person making out with the anonymous person he met online.

The quiche turns out okay. The conversation is much better.

***

Casually running into Eric at the store has turned into a bit of a pastime for Jack, although one that’s hit-and-miss. He doesn’t go to the fancier market every time he needs food; it’s out of the way, it’s far more expensive than the place he normally shops, and most of all, he doesn’t want to be creepy. He definitely skips it every time he’s stocking up on ingredients for a new cooking experiment, but once every couple of weeks he swings in to pick up a few chicken breasts, some vegetables, and a fistful of protein bars. And even then, he doesn’t always catch Eric.

Today, he does.

“Hey!” Eric greets him sunnily as he makes his way up in line. “How are you today, Jack?”

 _Better now_ , Jack thinks, but he’s not quite bold enough to say it. “Doing good. How are you?”

“Oh, just fine, but I’ll be even better in about two hours,” he replies.

“What happens then?”

Eric winks at him. “I get off work.”

“I suppose that would help,” Jack says with a chuckle.

“It always does,” Eric agrees, efficiently weighing two red peppers. “Say, I have a question for you. It might be a weird one.”

Jack furrows his brow, a tendril of dread unfurling in his stomach. He hasn’t pegged Eric as a hockey fan, but that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t somehow discovered who Jack is and read every article on the internet about his supposedly sordid past. His voice comes out a little too gruff as he says, “Shoot.”

Eric sounds strange and over casual as he asks: “Your name isn’t really Jacques, is it?”

It’s so unexpected and such a relief that Jack laughs. Eric gives him a wounded look. “Sorry, sorry,” Jack rushes out. “I just wasn’t expecting that. No, it’s just Jack. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, you know, your accent,” Eric says airily, but he’s looking down at Jack’s groceries instead of meeting his eye.

“ _My_ accent?” Jack teases him, and it’s enough to bring Eric’s head up so he can shoot Jack a playful glare. “My mom’s American. I’m named after her grandfather.”

Instead of responding to that, Eric just gives a vague nod and abruptly changes the subject. “Well, _Jack_ , I’m glad to see that you’re indulging your always adventurous palate.” He pointedly scans the package of chicken breasts and wraps it in a plastic bag.

“It’s a healthy protein!” Jack protests.

“I never see you buy anything but this,” Eric accuses, and Jack does his level best not to squirm or flush. “You know, I’m no slouch in the kitchen. If you ever want some tips for branching out, you just say the word. That’ll be thirty-one eighty-two.”

Jack feels something a little bit like whiplash, like Eric had extended something but then snatched it partially back before Jack could grasp it. He looks a little flushed, and Jack decides that he isn’t going to let it slide by so easily. “I might just take you up on that,” he says, sliding his card into the reader.

“Oh,” Eric says, sounding surprised and pleased. “Well, you know where to find me.”

He holds out Jack’s receipt and Jack takes it, their fingers brushing — by accident on Jack’s part, but the contact zings against his skin all the same. “I do,” he says.

***

As much as Jack wants to take Eric up on — well, whatever it is that he’s offering — he finds himself avoiding the store for the next few weeks. At first, he tells himself it’s because he’s anxious. Because he doesn’t want to seem overeager. Because he’s busy shooting fall weddings now that business at the studio is picking up. He knows, though, if he’s being honest with himself, that none of those is the real reason.

It’s because he’s hung up on B.

Which is _ridiculous_ , Jack argues with himself. He doesn’t even know B.

But that’s not exactly right — he’s shared more of himself with B than he has with Shitty or with Marty or with anyone else since Camilla, though only in vague terms that don’t include any identifying information. So, he wonders, does it really count as sharing himself? He knows a lot about B, but at the same time, that doesn’t include the most basic information, like where he lives, what he looks like. His name.

Is that enough to pass up the opportunity to spend time with someone — a real-life someone — who Jack is attracted to and who he’s been awkwardly flirting with for months?

The situation leaves Jack frozen, and as the days slip by, he knows that he’s making the decision by not making it at all.

It doesn’t stop him from thinking about it all the time. In fact, he’s so caught up in his own head that he doesn’t realize that Shitty is standing right in front of him at the studio. “Be right with you,” he mutters absently, as he makes a note on a client contract and tells himself that he could just go to Eric’s grocery store after work and put himself out of his misery. He glances up to offer a half-smile, then does a double-take and startles when he realizes who it is. “Shits?”

“That’s the name, brah,” Shitty says, “don’t wear it out.”

Jack thinks about how Marty is shooting a family portrait right down a very short hallway for a client with at least three small children. “Maybe let’s not say it at all anymore.”

Shitty takes it in stride. “That’s up to you, you beautiful fucker. What’s got you so distracted?” He peers over the edge of the counter in front of the desk, but there’s not much to see. Photography contracts aren’t terribly fascinating.

“Nothing,” Jack says, closing the folder.

“Nothing, my ass. You were a million fucking miles away.”

Jack winces and glances in the direction of the studio again. He might just be imagining it, but it sounds like Marty — who’s usually soft-spoken — is raising his voice to talk loudly over Shitty’s booming voice. “Um, why don’t we go sit in the office?” he suggests.

“Happy to,” Shitty says, thankfully without further cursing. “Lead the way.”

Jack does, ushering Shitty into the tiny office. He takes one chair, and Shitty takes the other. He looks serious and concerned as he asks Jack, “What’s up, man? You seem upset.”

“It’s —” Jack starts, then grimaces. “There’s this guy.”

“A guy!” Shitty crows.

Jack shushes him, jerking his head toward the wall. “Keep the volume down, okay? Marty’s got a client in there.”

Shitty cringes a little. “Sorry,” he whispers. It’s still loud, but it’s better than yelling.

“So, anyway,” Jack tries again, “there’s this guy. Well, two guys, actually.”

“Two guys!” Shitty whisper-shouts. “Jack, you dog.”

Jack sighs. “It’s not like that.”

“I know, brah,” Shitty says. “I’m just trying to lighten the mood. Sorry, I’ll shut the fuck up and let you talk now.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Jack nods, trying to find a better way to approach the issue. “So, I’ve been talking to this guy online —” Shitty looks like he wants to say something, but Jack shoots him a warning look and he mimes zipping his lips “— and it’s been… good. I like him a lot, I think, but I don’t know. Obviously I’ve never met him, so I don’t know if we’d get along in real life. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

Shitty does interject then. “He didn’t post his picture?”

“No,” Jack replies, and Shitty makes a thoughtful face but stays quiet. “And then I’ve run into this guy at the grocery store a couple of times. He’s, um — he’s really cute.”

“Promising,” Shitty comments. “And you’ve gazed upon this gentleman from afar?”

“We’ve actually talked a couple times,” Jack says, purposefully downplaying his grocery store stalking. “It was kind of, um. Flirty.”

A Cheshire-cat grin blooms across Shitty’s face, and Jack can’t even look at him. “Do tell.”

Jack gives him a twitchy shrug, eyes still averted. “There’s not much to tell. But I think he implied that we could maybe spend some time together, if I wanted.”

Shitty makes an appreciative noise. “Do you want?”

“It’s not like that,” Jack says again, but he’s not so sure this time. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s part of why he’s so nervous about it. Jack hasn’t had sex with anyone since Camilla, and the last time he’d done anything with a guy, he’d been a fumbling teenager. He can feel his face heating.

“Isn’t it?” Shitty asks.

“I don’t know,” Jack admits. “I — I’m attracted to him. But I feel kind of guilty about it, because I like the guy I’ve been talking to online a lot.”

He glances up to find Shitty nodding thoughtfully. “I’ve gotta say, brah, it worries me a little bit that this online dude hasn’t sent you a picture of his face. I’ve never used any of those dating apps, so I don’t know if that’s, like, standard policy. But what if he’s lying or some shit?”

Jack doesn’t bother correcting Shitty’s mistake. It’s easier to let him believe that Jack is online dating than explaining the truth. “I’ve seen parts of him,” he says.

It isn’t until Shitty makes a strangled choking noise that Jack realizes just how bad that sounds. “Jack —”

“No! It’s not —”

“As happy as I am that he sent you dick pics —”

“ _No_ ,” Jack interrupts, more forcefully. “It’s not… I’ve seen his _hands_.” It’s true; B’s hands do appear in some of the pictures and tutorials on his blog.

Shitty looks unconvinced.

“I’m serious,” Jack says.

“Sure,” Shitty drawls. “Okay, the point I was going to make still stands. You can Google pictures of… _hands_.”

“They’re his hands,” Jack grouses.

The amused expression slides off Shitty’s face. “Anyway, this guy’s appendages aside, I’m worried that you don’t seem to know a lot about him. This person, whoever fuck they are. What if it’s someone trying to pull something over on you?”

“I know a lot about him,” Jack protests. After the day when Jack had made his first pie crust and opened up about why, he and B have had more than a few heart to hearts.

“Oh yeah?” Shitty challenges. “Where does he live?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. But he doesn’t know where I live either.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-three,” Jack replies triumphantly.

“Okay, fine. What does he do for a living?”

“I — I don’t know.”

“What’s his name?”

Jack scowls and doesn’t answer.

Shitty sighs. “I’m sorry, dude. I’m not trying to, like, break your heart or some shit. There are just a lot of creepy fuckers out there, and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, okay? He could be totally on the up-and-up. But I think maybe you need to find out a little more about him. You want to do that anyway, right? You like him.”

“I do like him,” Jack mutters.

He’s surprised when a heavy weight lands on his shoulder — Shitty’s hand, which squeezes reassuringly. “It might all work out,” he says. “Just be careful. And hey, you’ve got a backup plan at the grocery store, yeah?”

Jack snorts. “He’s a person, not a backup plan.”

Shitty grins and draws back. “Well, he could be Plan A, if you want. You can always ghost the Grindr guy. No harm, no foul.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know you wouldn’t, Jackers, and that’s why I like you.” Shitty’s expression gentles. “Look, man, I can’t tell you what to do. I will be fucking thrilled for you if it works out with either of these guys. And if they don’t? I can always set you up with Lardo’s roommate.”

Jack lets out a long-suffering groan. “Shits, no.”

Shitty cackles. “Speaking of my lady, I’m actually here on business.”

“Oh?”

“She’s having her first major exhibit in early December, and I was wondering if I could hire the illustrious Jack Zimmermann and-or Sebastien St. Martin to capture the event in pictures.”

“That’s awesome,” Jack says. He’s happy for Lardo, who he’s met once or twice, and completely thrilled to change the subject. “I think we can work something out.”

***

Jack doesn’t go to the store where Eric works that night, but he does think a lot about Shitty’s advice. The things that Shitty had pointed out about his relationship with B do prick at Jack’s anxiety, but he can’t help but be touched by Shitty’s concern for his wellbeing. Even better, Jack’s relieved because he feels unstuck. He has a way forward.

When he gets home, he opens up a new email and types, haltingly:

> _To: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_  
>  _From: jl82901@gmail.com_
> 
> _Dear B,_
> 
> _Thank you for the tips! I think they’ll be really useful. I hope you were able to get some sleep._
> 
> _I have a question for you. I’m not sure exactly what it is yet. I’ve really enjoyed talking and emailing with you, and I feel like I can really call you my friend. But even though you know a lot about me and I know a lot about you, we’re still kind of like strangers._
> 
> _Would you be interested in getting to know each other more in real life? I don’t know what that would be. Maybe we could exchange pictures? Or talk on the phone? I’m not sure where you live, but maybe we could meet in person some day. I’d like to meet you._
> 
> _I know you don’t usually share any details about yourself online, but I thought maybe you’d consider making an exception._
> 
> _Let me know what you think._  
>  _J_

Before he can second guess himself, Jack hits send.

There’s no answer before he goes to bed.

***

Jack checks his email as soon as he wakes up and, heart in his throat, reads the response that had come in overnight.

> _To: jl82901@gmail.com_  
>  _From: lifesapeachblog@gmail.com_
> 
> _Dear J,_
> 
> _Well, as you can see, I’m up in the middle of the night again. There’s no rest for the wicked, I’m afraid, but there are madeleines._
> 
> _Honey, before I answer your questions, I want you to know that I feel the same way about you. You’ve definitely become a real friend to me, and I’m honored that you would consider me to be one of yours. I’ve loved our talks over the past few months. I hope that we can keep having them after you read the rest of this email._
> 
> _I thought about it long and hard while I was baking, and I’m not ready to do any of those things yet. And it’s not because I don’t trust you. I’m afraid you might think that, and I don’t want you to. I trust you a lot, and I like you a lot, and quite honestly, I’m afraid of changing anything and losing it all. Maybe that’s silly. I’m not saying this is forever, but it is for now._
> 
> _I’m so sorry. I hope that you’re not mad at me, but I understand if you are. And I really, really hope that we can continue to chat and email like we have been._
> 
> _B_

Jack tries not to let it sting.

It stings.

Still, he doesn’t want to leave B wondering how he’s going to respond, so he fires off a quick reply.

> _B,_
> 
> _Of course we can still chat and email. Nothing has to change. Don’t apologize. I’m not mad._
> 
> _I don’t have time to write any more right now because I have to get to work, but I didn’t want you to have to wait. I’ll write more later._
> 
> _Have a good day,_  
>  _J_

It’s different after that.

***

When Jack next steps into Eric’s grocery store, his heart is thundering. He’s here for one reason and one reason only, and it’s not to buy another package of free-range chicken breasts, although he adds one to his basket. He completes the rest of his shopping trip on autopilot, and by the time he gets to the front of the store, he’s sweating. He’s not sure if it would be better or worse if Eric isn’t working.

But he is.

Jack casually gets in line at his register, even though there are other options where he wouldn’t have to wait as long. He stares unseeingly at a display of candy until his turn comes, taking deep breaths that don’t calm him as much as he’d hoped.

Eric _beams_ at him. “Jack! Hi! I haven’t seen you in a while.”

It sounds conversational, not accusatory, and Jack manages not to wince. “Yeah, I, um. Things got really busy at work all of a sudden,” he says, which isn’t technically a lie. It just isn’t the reason he hasn’t been to the store.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Eric replies, his mouth twisting into a sympathetic moue. “I guarantee you I’ll be in the same boat next week, with Thanksgiving coming up. I am _not_ looking forward to it.”

“I bet,” Jack says. There’s a natural pause in the conversation, and Jack realizes that it could be an opening. But he can’t just — ask Eric out, can he? That would be awkward; Eric is at work.

Luckily, Eric saves him from himself, holding up the chicken and asking, “Do you ever eat anything unhealthy, Jack?”

It’s teasing, and Jack, relieved, takes the bait. “Those protein bars have a lot of sugar.”

Eric scoffs. “Protein bars don’t count.”

“Then no,” Jack says, deadpan, “I’ve never eaten anything unhealthy in my entire life.”

“My goodness, what a terrible existence,” Eric plays along, all mock-pity.

“Well, maybe —” Jack’s heart is jumping against his ribs again “— maybe I don’t know what I’m missing.”

Eric’s cheeks are flushed as he scans Jack’s last few items. “I might be able to help with that. If you want.”

“Oh?” Jack asks.

“It just so happens that I baked a fresh batch of apple tarts last night,” Eric says. “I have a few in back that I brought to work to share with the folks here. Maybe I can save one for you, if you’d like to meet me here at the end of my shift?”

A wave of emotions crashes over Jack — exhilaration and nerves and relief — so strong that he can barely string together a coherent response. “When is that?” he manages to get out.

“In about an hour and a half.”

Jack smiles. “I’ll be here.”

***

An hour and a half gives Jack more than enough time to go home, put his groceries away, and agonize over whether or not he should change his clothes. He’s not wearing anything he would usually wear on a date, but Eric has already seen him in it, and it’s going to be obvious if he shows up in something else. In the end, he swaps out his sweatshirt for a sweater in deep maroon and calls it a day.

Jack hovers awkwardly outside the front doors when he gets back to the store, not sure if he should go in or not. He decides to wait five minutes, and Eric emerges around the corner before he even gets to three. He’s bundled up in a puffy jacket, a knit cap, and mittens, and Jack can’t help but smile when he sees it. “How long was I waiting?” he asks, feigning a look at his watch. “Is it December already?”

“Oh, hush you,” Eric says. “It’ll be December in another week or so, and my Southern blood can’t take this kind of cold no matter what the calendar says.”

“Cold?” Jack’s wearing a light jacket, but he’s already wondering if he even needs it. “It’s almost seven degrees out.”

“I don’t speak Celsius,” Eric fires back primly, “but I know when I’m being made fun of. You’d better be careful, or I’m not sharing a single apple tart.” There’s a Tupperware container in his arms, and he clutches it more tightly to his chest.

“Maybe that was my plan all along,” Jack suggests. “So that I don’t break my healthy-eating streak.”

Eric huffs out a laugh. “Well, we can’t have that, now can we? Should we walk a little?”

“Walking sounds good if you won’t be too cold,” Jack says, politely now instead of teasing.

“I’m tougher than I look,” Eric replies, and they start out together, close enough that Eric’s puffy sleeve brushes against Jack’s arm every few steps. After about half a block of silence, he speaks up again: “You said your work is keeping you busy. What do you do?”

“I’m a photographer,” Jack answers, and there’s still something thrilling about speaking the words; in the answer not being _I’m a hockey coach_ or _I work at a hockey rink_. At the same time, Jack is starting to feel comfortable in them. This is who he is now. He has an identity outside of being a hockey prodigy or Bad Bob Zimmermann’s son.

Eric perks up with interest. “Really? You’re an artist?”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d say that,” Jack cautions. “I run a studio with my friend. We do a lot of weddings, and portraits, special events, that kind of stuff. There were a lot of family portraits this fall, for Christmas cards, and I’m taking Photoshop classes so I can help out more with the editing and retouching.”

“Oh gosh, how wonderful, to get to go to weddings for work,” Eric says — practically sighs.

Jack glances down at him and smiles. “You think?”

“They’re such happy occasions,” he explains. “It has to beat going to the _grocery store_.”

“Probably,” Jack agrees with a chuckle. “And I guess yeah, it can be really fun sometimes, but it’s stressful too. You have to watch everything that’s going on constantly and be ready to shoot, because you don’t want to miss anything important. You’re on your feet all day carrying a heavy camera. People can be really rude and demanding.”

“Jack,” Eric says, and he’s giving Jack a _look_. “I work _retail_.”

“Yeah, okay, you win.”

Eric smiles pertly. “Thank you.”

They lapse into silence as they continue up the street, but it doesn’t feel strained. Jack forces himself to not struggle for something to fill it, and after a few quiet moments, Eric comments, “You’ve gotta have some interesting stories.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “I shot a wedding this summer where the groom fainted twice during the ceremony.”

Eric gives an appreciative gasp. “No!”

“It was one of the hottest days of the year,” Jack says, remembering, “and we were in this old church with no air conditioning or ventilation. After he went down the first time, he told everyone he’d be okay to keep going. He hit the deck again not ten minutes later. Had to finish out the ceremony in a chair.”

“Was he all right?”

“Oh yeah. He was just overheated. Maybe nervous, maybe hungover, I don’t know. They still ended up married; that’s the important part.”

“I suppose they have a story they can tell their grandkids some day,” Eric says as they arrive at a small park. Actually, Jack thinks, _park_ may be too grand a word: it’s a green space with a few trees and benches and a single swingset. Eric nods at one of the benches. “Would you like to sit for a minute? You should try one of the tarts before they get too cold.”

It sounds like a decent enough plan to Jack, so he agrees and takes a seat. Eric joins him, not quite touching, but at a closer distance than anyone could describe as strictly friendly. He peels back the lid of the Tupperware to reveal what look like two miniature pies with a crumble topping.

Jack takes one and admires it before he tastes. It’s beautiful, as lovely as any picture he’d ever seen on B’s blog — but he doesn’t want to think about that, so he quickly shoves the thought aside. He takes a bite, and the flavor of the tart fills his mouth, rich and complex, sweet and spicy. It’s good, it’s _so_ good, even though it isn’t fresh-out-of-the-oven, and Jack can’t help the pleased noise that emits from his throat. “Wow.”

Eric grins, not bothering to hide his preening. “If you like them now, you should have tasted them fresh out of the oven,” he says, starting to eat the second tart himself. He puts the lid back on the container and sets it on the bench on his other side, shifting a little closer to Jack in the process, his thigh brushing up along Jack’s.

“Is there something — different? In these? Like something unusual?” Jack asks, popping the rest of his tart into his mouth, before sucking a smear of filling off his thumb.

Eric tracks the motion, then drops his gaze, his eyelashes fanning toward the delicate curve of his cheekbone. “Oh, um, yeah. There’s maple. I’ve been experimenting with it.”

“It’s really good,” Jack says, as honestly as he can. Beside him, Eric has wrapped his arms securely around his middle, and unless Jack is mistaken, he’s shaking minutely. “Are you cold? Do you want to find somewhere to go inside? Or — or reschedule?”

“I’ll be all right.”

“You’re shivering.”

Eric casts him a sidelong glance and a coy, nervous smile. “Maybe you can help me out with that, you big space heater. I see you over there in your light jacket.”

“Oh,” Jack says. He scoots against Eric on the bench, their legs and sides pressed all up against each other now. Eric’s eyes are wide and luminous in the low light, and Jack feels caught, his breath sticking in his throat as he tilts in closer. Eric lifts his chin, just a fraction of an inch, but he doesn’t move away, so Jack ducks in for a single, lingering, sugary kiss.

“Warmer now?” Jack asks as it ends.

“Much,” Eric whispers. He gently puts one mittened hand on Jack’s shoulder and draws close for another sweet press of lips. He exhales shakily against Jack’s mouth when they part. “If you, um —” he starts, then clears his throat gently. “If you want another tart, my apartment is right across the street.”

So, that’s what’s on offer. Not tarts, Jack knows, but not necessarily the start of a long-lasting relationship either. He’s still interested, he decides in a flash; after all, there’s nothing holding him back anymore. “Okay,” he says.

Eric nods and kisses him one last time, with a little heat this time, and stands. They walk across the street in silence and stand close in the elevator up to Eric’s floor.

When they get to Eric’s apartment, they don’t eat tarts.

Eric invites Jack to press him against the wall just inside the door, and Jack’s hands slide off his thick coat until Eric squirms away to struggle out of it. Then they’re making out on a well-worn, comfortable couch, next to each other to start, but that doesn’t last very long. Jack tugs at Eric, barely realizing that he’s doing it, acting on autopilot, and Eric doesn’t waste much time in settling over his lap, a comfortable weight, even if he keeps a polite distance between their bodies.

This is — maybe not what Jack needs, but it feels good. _Eric_ feels good, and he tastes good, and his hands feel good on Jack’s neck and in his hair and on his chest. Jack’s heart throbs underneath them, and his blood rushes in his ears. He spreads his hands across the slender expanse of Eric’s back and can’t help but slide one down, urging him closer with a firm grip on the curve of his ass.

Eric obliges as they kiss deeply, spreading his knees wide and settling his body against Jack’s, and Jack can _feel_ him —

And then Eric freezes.

Jack lets him go immediately as he scrambles back and huddles against the arm of the couch. “Jack,” he says, his voice gravelly, “I… I can’t do this. I thought — but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“It’s —” Jack starts. What is it? He takes a deep breath and sits forward on the couch, willing his body to calm down. “It’s okay.”

Eric isn’t looking at him. “I’m really sorry,” he repeats.

“Don’t apologize,” Jack says.

There’s a weighty silence.

Eric uncurls from the corner of the couch, but he doesn’t move any closer. “Jack, I — I’ve been really attracted to you, and I thought maybe I could just… just do this, like normal people. But it’s not _me_. I’m —”

“You really don’t need to apologize,” Jack interjects. “If you’re not comfortable, then that's it. You don’t need to feel bad.”

“Okay,” Eric says, his voice small.

Jack pushes himself to his feet. “I should probably go.” A quick look around reveals his jacket on the ground near the door, and he retrieves it.

“Okay,” Eric repeats. He looks up to meet Jack’s eyes for the first time since he’d broken away. “Maybe — maybe I’ll see you around? At the store?”

“Yeah,” Jack says. Lies. He can’t imagine going back to the store after this, but he could change his mind after the fog clears. “Bye, Eric.”

He lets himself out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a wedding photographer for several years, and fainted-twice-during-the-ceremony-guy is real. It's not my best wedding photography story, but I couldn't make the best one fit :)


	3. Winter

Jack spends most of American Thanksgiving weekend alone and miserable, watching football and movies and ignoring his kitchen and his computer as much as humanly possible. He’d planned to use the time to try out a new recipe or two, but he can’t even stand the thought. His correspondence with B has trickled off to almost nothing, the last message he’d received just three sentences long with nothing that Jack can even reply to. Jack had caved in and looked at B’s blog, and it seems like life has carried on without him: B has posted a new recipe, accompanied by a light-hearted entry about how he’d nearly cut off the tip of one finger making it. In the pictures, his fingertip is wrapped in a bandage adorned with cartoon rabbits.

Desperate for a distraction, Jack even tries going in to the studio and sorting through pictures from the last wedding he’d shot, but that just reminds him of talking about his job with Eric. Finally, he texts Shitty and arranges a time to grab a burger.

Shitty keeps up a constant stream of conversation as they’re seated — something about the final preparations that Lardo’s making for her art exhibit. Jack’s grateful for the distraction, until Shitty finishes his story, gives Jack a wicked grin and asks, “So, I know you’re technically working at the show, but do you want to bring a plus-one? Last I heard, you had two _lovely_ young men on the string, so maybe a plus-two.”

“Oh, uh —” Jack grimaces down at the dark surface of the booth “— no, I won’t be bringing anyone. I struck out.”

“With?”

“Both of them.”

“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” Shitty says, and he sounds like he really means it. “Do you want to talk about it? What happened?”

Jack shrugs. “There’s not a lot to talk about. I asked the online guy if he wanted to talk on the phone or meet up; he said no. The grocery store guy and I — well, we, um — we kind of hooked up? But that was it.”

Shitty’s eyebrows shoot up and he lets out a low whistle. “That sounds like a lot to me. You sure you don’t want to talk it over?”

“The outcome’s the same if we talk about it or not.”

Whether it’s Jack’s words or the way that he’s hunched down over his elbows, Shitty seems to get the message that Jack isn’t going to share anything more. “I’m sorry, brah,” he says again, even more sympathetically. After a pause, he adds, “Hey, give me your phone,” and holds out his hand.

Jack squints at him. “Why?”

“So I can put Lardo’s roommate’s number in it.”

And Jack wants to say no again, just like he has every time before — hell, Shitty’s probably joking at this point — but something makes him hesitate. What does he have to lose, really? And he’s known Shitty for going on a year now — he’s starting to think that Shitty might actually know the kind of person he’d like. “I don’t know,” he says finally.

Shitty’s eyebrows fly up. “Shit, you’re really thinking about it? He’s such a good dude, Jack. I for-fucking-real think you’d like him. He’s super nice, and he even used to play hockey.”

Jack’s stomach drops. “No hockey players.”

“Fuck,” Shitty blurts out, “shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it like that. He’s not like… a _hockey player_ hockey player.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

Shitty holds up his hands in innocence. “Nothing! Just that he’s not your stereotypical hockey dudebro. Forget I said that part. I just meant that you guys have something in common.”

Jack pauses again, looking down at the dark phone in his hand, uncertain.

“You don’t have to do anything with it,” Shitty says, placating. “He’ll be at Lardo’s art show next week — maybe you can just say hi ahead of time? Arrange to introduce yourself?”

“Why can’t I just meet him there? Why do I have to text him first?”

“You don’t,” Shitty repeats. “Totally up to you.”

Jack sighs, unlocks his phone, and hands it over. When Shitty returns it, Jack looks down at the new entry and frowns. “Bitty?”

Shitty grins. “That’s his name; don’t wear it out.”

“Even I know that joke was old twenty years ago, Shits,” Jack says.

Luckily, their food arrives, giving Jack the perfect opportunity to relock his phone and change the subject.

***

For the next two days, the phone — and the number in it — burn a hole in Jack’s pocket. Against his better judgment, he’s getting intrigued by Shitty’s insistence that he and this guy — Bitty — will be such a good match. And on top of that, as much as the experiences with both B and Eric had gone down in flames, they’ve made Jack realize that he really is ready to date again. Even more than that, he wants to.

Still, he doesn’t feel like he consciously makes the decision to send the text until it’s already been delivered.

**> > __**_Hi, is this lardo’s roommate?_

He tries not to wait for an answer, but he does exactly that. Luckily, it comes fast.

**< < __**_This is Lardo’s roommate! You must be Shitty’s friend._

**> > __**_That’s me. How are you?_

**< < __**_I’m doing just fine! How about yourself?_

**> > __**_Not bad._  
**> > __**_I hear you’re going to be at lardo’s art show next week._

**< < __**_That I am!_  
**< < __**_I suppose we’d better make arrangements to introduce ourselves._  
**< < __**_We’ll never hear the end of it if we don’t._

Jack snorts. In all honesty, that fact is definitely factoring into his decision to accept and now use the phone number that Shitty’s been offering him for months.

**> > __**_That’s the truth._  
**> > __**_I won’t be able to meet you right away. Can I buy you a drink at the bar at 8:30?_

**< < __**_That sounds great! I’ll be a little late too._

And that’s that. Not even worth getting worked up about. Jack’s about to shoot back some version of _great, see you then_ when his phone sounds again.

**< < __**_So, what have they told you about me?_

When Jack starts to answer, he finds himself distressingly short on details. For as much as Shitty had criticized Jack’s lack of knowledge about B, he’d provided precious little information about Bitty.

**> > __**_That you’re very nice, used to play hockey, and could teach me how to cook._

**< < **（＾∀＾） _Well I’d say all of that is true!_

**> > __**_What about me?_

**< < __**_That you used to play hockey and that you’re very tall and good-looking._  
**< < __**_Only in Shitty speak._

Jack lets out a long-suffering groan.

**> > __**_So he called me a fucking beaut._

**< < __**_Those may have been his words._

Of course he did. Jack starts typing, but before he can finish, another message comes in.

**< < __**_So… are you? ^.~_

Jack slowly deletes his half-written text, but he has no idea what to replace it with. He doesn’t give a _ton_ of thought to his appearance, but he’s not blind to how people react to him. At the same time, he can’t say yes — and he certainly can’t say no. He reads Bitty’s question again, and his stomach flips a little at how flirtatious it is.

**> > __**_I think I’ll leave that up to you to decide._

**< < __**_I look forward to it._

***

The venue for Lardo’s art show definitely has a certain vibe, with exposed brick walls around the bar and visible ductwork in the ceilings. The lighting is moody, except for the bright lights illuminating the paintings themselves. There’s just-too-loud music filling the space — [a cover of “Last Christmas” that Jack definitely doesn’t recognize](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5VU02o-pHxY) — along with a buzz of conversation. Ordinarily, Jack would feel out of place, but it’s less of a concern tonight, when he’s getting paid to be there. Plus, he had taken some extra care with his outfit, since he’ll be meeting Bitty, so he feels half a step less out of touch than he might otherwise.

After he’s made a few laps, he runs into Lardo, who looks sleek in an all-black outfit and a huge necklace. She greets him warmly, with a hug. “Bro, I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Congratulations, Lardo,” Jack says. “It all looks great.”

She gives him a knowing smile. “You don’t know shit about art.”

“That’s a nice thing to say to your photographer.”

“You don’t know shit about abstract painting,” she amends.

Jack certainly can’t argue with that. “I don’t,” he agrees, “but they look great.”

Lardo rewards him with another hug.

For the first hour and a half, Jack circulates through the space, snapping candid shots of the attendees admiring the art and laughing amongst themselves. He enjoys this part of his job: being a part of an event or a wedding reception, without feeling the pressure to actually join in. He shoots almost a hundred frames while Lardo gives a brief speech and thank you to the small assembled crowd, and even captures a sweet shot of Lardo and Shitty canoodling in a corner, softly lit by a string of twinkle lights.

The whole time, he wonders if Bitty has arrived yet, whether he’s there in the crowd, whether he’s looking for Jack too. Does he know that Jack will be the event photographer? Will he know who Jack is before Jack knows him? It adds an extra edge of anticipation to the night, and Jack finds himself lingering on men here and there, though his viewfinder, wondering, and over and over again, his scalp prickles like he’s being watched.

Still, at eight-thirty, Jack is no closer to divining who Bitty is, and he approaches the bar nervously, letting his camera dangle around his neck. There are a few clusters of people around it, and Jack doesn’t see anyone by themselves until he sidesteps one group and spots a man standing alone. He’s short, blond, and facing away from Jack, and… there’s something vaguely familiar about him. Jack still hasn’t put his finger on why when he turns around and —

Shit. It’s Eric. Eric is here. There’s no way that Jack can try to get to know someone new if Eric is here.

Unless.

He watches recognition and shock sweep over Eric’s features.

“Jack,” he rasps.

“Eric,” Jack says. Then he adds, hesitantly, “…Bitty?”

Eric’s — Bitty’s — jaw drops. “Oh my lord.”

They’re standing, frozen, staring at each other, when Shitty approaches and claps Jack on the back. “You guys found each other! Fucking sweet. What did I tell you?”

The moment hangs in the air, spinning out, more and more fragile, until Bitty breaks it. “You — you haven’t been back to the store since we — since we, um…”

Jack cringes and casts his eyes briefly to the floor, then lifts them to meet Bitty’s agonized gaze. “I’m sorry. I — I was afraid that I did something wrong. I didn’t know if you would even want to see me. But I didn’t have any other way to get in touch with you, and I guess I, um. I chickened out. I’m really sorry.”

Shitty is swinging back and forth between them like he’s watching a tennis match. “Wait, you guys already know each other?”

“Wait, Jack is the _hot grocery store guy_?” Lardo pipes up from Shitty’s other side, and Jack hadn’t even realized she’d walked up. “And you hooked up with him? And you didn’t tell me? And _you_ —” she wheels to face Jack “— didn’t even call him after?”

She’s so terrifying that Jack actually shuffles backwards, and Shitty’s arm drops from his shoulder. “We didn’t hook up!”

“Uh, you told me you did, brah,” Shitty says. “If Bits is the guy you were running into at the grocery store. I thought you shopped closer to home.”

“I said we _kind of_ hooked up,” Jack corrects. “We didn’t… hook all the way up.”

“But you didn’t call him?” Lardo asks again, maybe even more menacingly than before. “Or at least — try to find him if you didn’t have his number?”

Bitty steps forward then and touches Lardo’s shoulder with a placating touch. “Lards, hey. Take it easy. It’s not all his fault; I’m sure I didn’t make it seem like I wanted to see him.”

Which is true, but Jack barely hears it. Everything else is fuzzing out as his vision narrows its focus down to Bitty’s hand on Lardo’s shoulder. To the bandage wrapped around the tip of the second finger. The one with rabbits on it.

“Do you have a blog?” Jack blurts.

Everyone else goes silent, which is probably for the best, because they’re starting to attract attention, and the last thing Jack wants to do is ruin Lardo’s big night.

“I do,” Bitty says suspiciously.

“About cooking.”

“Yes.”

“You’re B.” Jack’s ears are still ringing, so he hopes he’s speaking an at acceptable volume. He could be yelling or inaudible; he’s really not sure. “You were teaching me to make tourtiere.”

Bitty’s eyes flare wide. “You’re J,” he says, his voice slow and quiet. “J for Jack.”

“You were teaching him to cook?” Lardo asks Bitty, and she seems — to Jack’s relief — slightly less inclined to murder. “How much have you been hiding from me? I thought he just came to the store every once in a while.”

“I didn’t know it was him,” Bitty explains, but he’s looking at Jack, staring at him, like he’s trying to figure him out. Jack has no idea how to read his expression. “That was all online. He emailed the blog, and we got to chatting.”

“Hold the fuck up,” Shitty says suddenly. “Bits is the online guy too? Jack, I thought you were meant you were using Grindr or some shit.”

Jack shoots him a rueful look. “I never actually said that.”

“Well, holy fucking shit,” he replies. “What are the fucking chances.”

None of them has an answer for that.

Finally, Bitty speaks up again. “Shits? Lards? Do you mind giving Jack and I the chance to talk? I think — I think we need it.”

“Of course, brah,” Shitty says, while Lardo asks, “Will you be all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” he reassures her, and they have a quick conversation with their eyes before Shitty and Lardo move away. Shitty gives Jack one last look as well, along with a grim smile.

And then they’re alone.

Jack turns back to Bitty, with no idea what he’ll find. It could be rage, or hurt, or disgust — but it’s none of those things. Bitty’s expression is much milder than Jack had anticipated, and it’s more confused than anything else, bordering on bewildered.

“I really am sorry,” Jack rushes to say. “I wanted to come back to the store so many times, but I — I didn’t know how you’d react. I’m sorry.”

Bitty takes a deep breath, and his shoulders slump the slightest fraction of an inch. “I believe you. I understand.” He pauses, then adds, “If I’m being _totally_ honest, I’m not sure I would have gotten in touch with you either, if I’d had a way to. I did hope you’d come in, though.”

“I wish I had,” Jack says, in all honesty, and they lapse into silence. “Can I — can I, uh, buy you a drink?” he asks awkwardly after a moment. It had been their initial plan, after all.

To his surprise, one side of Bitty’s mouth turns up in a tiny, surprising smile. “As much as I’d like one at the moment, I think it might be best to keep a clear head. If we’re going to talk more?”

Relief washes over Jack; so strong that it’s a near-physical thing. Bitty wants to talk more. He’s not being let down easy — or painfully. Not yet. “I’d like that,” Jack replies quickly. “Should we — go somewhere else?”

Bitty frowns. “Aren’t you working?”

“Oh. Right.” Twisting away, Jack finds Shitty and Lardo huddled at a high-top table nearby, and Shitty waves him off. Jack sighs and faces Bitty again. “I think I’m being relieved of my duties for the evening.”

With a quick glare at their audience, Bitty says, “Great. So… where to?”

Jack rifles quickly through the options. He doesn’t think inviting Bitty to his apartment would send the right message, and he’s sure they won’t be going back to Bitty’s. This isn’t a conversation Jack wants to have in public. Which leaves — “The studio is actually only a few blocks from here. We can walk, if you won’t be too cold?”

“That sounds good,” Bitty agrees. “Give me a minute to get my coat?”

“Perfect. I need to pack up my gear,” Jack says, lifting the camera from around his neck.

Bitty nods. “I’ll meet you up front.”

***

The walk to the studio is beautiful. It’s started to snow, fat flakes that drift down through the streetlamps like something out of a movie. The streets are bursting with holiday cheer; there are decorations and strings of lights in windows, on buildings, hanging from light posts and stretched overhead. Jack just wishes the circumstances were a little less — fraught.

It’s not uncomfortable, exactly. Bitty is walking alongside him serenely enough, but he’s silent. He’s bundled up in the same puffy winter jacket that he was wearing the last time Jack had seen him, and it’s as cute now as it had been then. He’s rosy from the cold and the lights are reflecting in his eyes, and as Jack sneaks glance after glance at him, he realizes just how disappointed he’s going to be if they can’t straighten this mess out.

At the studio, Jack flips on a few lights and invites Bitty to sit at the table out front that they use for consults. The office would be far too intimate.

“So,” Jack says, taking a seat across from him.

“So,” Bitty echoes. He’s shaking his head slowly, his eyes trained on the way his hands are twisting in his lap. “I’m still having a hard time taking this all in.”

“It’s pretty unreal,” Jack agrees. “You’re lifesapeach, eh?”

Bitty’s eyes flicker up, and another smile quirks across his lips. “That’s me. And you’re JL eighty-two nine oh one.”

“That’s me.”

“And you’re Jacques,” Bitty adds.

Jack furrows his brow. “My name really is just Jack.”

“I know,” Bitty says. “But that’s how Shitty put you in my phone.”

“Of course he did.”

“Do you know,” Bitty asks, “that I thought you lived in Wyoming? I had no idea you were right under my nose the whole time.”

Jack’s first instinct is to tease (he’s got a least five or six inches on Bitty; he’d have to sit down to be under Bitty’s nose), but he holds back, because he’s pretty sure it’s not the right time. “Wyoming? Where did you get that idea?”

“Your email address,” Bitty says, like that explains everything. At Jack’s blank look, he continues, “Eight two nine zero one. It’s a zip code in Wyoming.”

He had to have looked that up. Jack can’t help but thrill just a bit; he’d been curious enough about Jack to try and figure out his email address. “Oh. Well, it’s also my birthday — August 2, 1990 — and my old hockey number. Which was one.”

Bitty nods. “I guess you had me fooled.”

Another small silence follows, and as much as Jack is both afraid of the answer, he has to ask: “So, if you thought I lived on the other side of the country, why didn’t you want to — tell each other who we really were? Or… or anything?”

As he’d feared, Bitty frowns and averts his eyes again as he slumps in his seat. “I — oh, Jack. Before I get into that, I have to say that I liked talking to you so much, okay? I liked _you_ so much,” he adds, flushing.

“I don’t know why,” Jack comments. “My emails were boring.”

“They were _not_ ,” Bitty protests, lifting his head again, his expression earnest. “Your emails were sweet, and honest. I loved getting them.”

Jack’s pretty sure he’s blushing now. “Oh,” he says. “So…?”

Bitty takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. “I guess that was _me_ chickening out. I meant everything I said in that email. What we had was really special to me, and I was afraid that if we changed anything about it… that maybe you wouldn’t like me as much, or you wouldn’t want to talk to me as much. I didn’t want anything to change, but I guess it did anyway.”

“I didn’t want it to either,” Jack says. “And I’m sorry for that too. I felt like I put myself out there, and when it didn’t go my way I — pulled myself back in, I guess. It wasn’t fair to you.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Bitty counters. “I could have trusted you more. Trusted myself more.”

Jack gives him a stern look. “Absolutely not. You weren’t comfortable with it.”

Bitty huffs. “Well, maybe. But you shouldn’t apologize either. I understand why what happened would make you feel like… retreating.”

“So I guess we agree that we shouldn’t be mad at each other,” Jack says, feeling some of the tension drain out of his body.

“We agree on more than that,” Bitty says. He looks a little shy, and something in Jack’s chest tries to flare to life. “We agree that we really liked emailing each other.”

Jack feels a smile bloom on his face. “Yeah? I really liked talking to you, too, at the store.”

“Me too,” Bitty agrees. “Maybe we can start over?”

“I like that idea.”

Bitty offers him a real smile then — and Jack’s stomach swoops and he is in so much trouble — as he extends his arm across the table. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Eric Bittle, and my friends call me Bitty.”

Jack clasps his hand. It feels good in his own. “Nice to meet you too. I’m Jack Zimmermann.”

And just like that, Bitty freezes. “Wait. You’re Jack _Zimmermann?_ ”

Well, shit, Jack thinks. How many revelations are there going to be tonight? He gives Bitty’s hand one last squeeze and releases it. “So I, uh — I take it you’ve heard of me.”

Bitty shoots him a look. “I played hockey for seven years, Jack. But I will admit that I only found out about you in college, because there was a rumor that you almost came to Samwell. Rans and Holster — they were our captains for two years running — were convinced we would have won at least one Frozen Four with you on the team.”

“I almost did go to Samwell,” Jack admits. “My mom went there, so I had an in. But then I decided that I didn’t want to play hockey anymore, and that I wanted to do something on my own merits, not because of a family connection.”

“She did go there, didn’t she?” Bitty muses, and then he suddenly goes pale. “Your mother is _Alicia Zimmermann_. Jack. I have had movie marathons dedicated to your mother.”

Jack chuckles. “I’ll be sure to let her know.”

“You wouldn’t _dare_. Oh my god, so that means when you would talk about not getting along with your dad, you meant —”

“Bad Bob, yeah.”

Bitty is shaking his head slowly. “Rans and Holster are going to _flip_ when they find out that I met you.”

Jack can’t help but roll his eyes at that. “I’m just some guy now. I’m a photographer.”

“They still will. And they’ll lose it entirely when they hear that you asked me out again.” Bitty leans onto his elbows and glances up at Jack through his lashes. “You are going to, aren’t you?”

Jack pushes himself forward too. It’s a small table; it doesn’t leave them that far apart. “Or you could ask me.”

Bitty gives him a sheepish grin. “Isn’t that what I just did?”

“In that case,” Jack says, “yes.”

He leans in, checking for Bitty’s reaction, and when Bitty just smiles, Jack kisses him.

***

Jack answers a knock on his door a few weeks later to find Bitty, carrying a covered platter, and wearing a near-manic smile. “They’re not here yet,” Jack informs him.

“Oh, thank the lord,” Bitty says, slumping against the door frame. He thrusts the tray at Jack. “Take this, but no sneaking tastes.”

“I would never,” Jack promises. He accepts the platter — which he knows contains the maple gingerbread yule log that Bitty’s been working on perfecting for over a week — and leans over to greet Bitty with a kiss.

“Sure you wouldn’t,” Bitty mutters as they part. He steps into the apartment, which is spotlessly clean and, at Bitty’s insistence, cheerfully decorated. “Did everything come together okay? I’m _so_ sorry I couldn’t stay and help, but there was no one else to cover the last afternoon shift today and —”

“Bits,” Jack interrupts. “I know. It’s fine, and I think all the food seems good. Relax.”

Bitty huffs, “ _Relax_ , he says. We’ll see how relaxed you are when it’s time for you to meet my folks —” He cuts himself off abruptly, his eyes going wide. “I mean…”

Jack gives him a confident wink. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, eh? For now, don’t worry, at least not about the food. I’ve had almost a month’s worth of intensive training from the best in the business.”

Bitty grins as he leads the way into the kitchen. “I suppose you did, didn’t you? Though I distinctly remember some of those lessons getting a bit side-tracked.”

Jack hums appreciatively as deposits the platter on the counter and then boxes Bitty in against it, trapping him there. “I remember that too,” he murmurs, before he captures Bitty’s lips much more deeply than he had at the door.

It’s a surprise when Bitty lets him carry on for a few long moments, but too soon, he’s using his hands fisted in Jack’s sweater to push him back a few inches. “Honey, don’t you dare get me all rumpled up before your parents get here,” he scolds, even though it’s not very effective when his voice already sounds strained. “Besides, you don’t want them walking in on this, do you?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Jack points out, and Bitty lets out a scandalized laugh as he shoves Jack away playfully.

They’re partway through setting the table when Jack’s parents arrive, and all the nerves that Jack had been tamping down to keep Bitty calm suddenly rush to the surface. He turns quickly to Bitty before going to the door. “How do I look?” he asks almost desperately.

“So handsome, sweetheart,” Bitty replies, giving him a reassuring smile, even though he looks a little pale himself.

Jack’s parents sweep into the apartment in a flurry of warm greetings, hugs, and cheek kisses for both Jack and Bitty, who’s gone from peaked to scarlet. His mother declares his apartment “ _so_ charming, darling!” and his father sniffs the air appreciatively and asks, “do I smell tourtiere?”

After a brief tour, once they’re all settled into the living room with glasses of wine, Alicia smiles at Bitty. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, dear. Every time we called Jack these past few weeks to finalize our travel plans, all he wanted to do was talk about you.”

“ _Maman_ ,” Jack groans, even though he’d expected nothing less.

“Hush, Jack. It’s sweet,” Alicia says. “We didn’t even know you were seeing someone, and suddenly it’s Bitty-this and Bitty-that.” She turns back to Bitty. “With your accent, you can’t possibly be from Boston.”

“No, ma’am,” Bitty replies, and Jack’s not sure if he’s playing up the twang for effect or if he’s just nervous. “I was born and bred just outside Atlanta, Georgia, and I moved here for college.”

“That must have been quite the change! What school did you go to?”

Shyly, Bitty says, “Actually, I went to Samwell.”

Alicia’s eyes light up, and they’re off.

Jack watches them fondly for a moment, until his father clears his throat and asks, « _So, Jack, how are things?_ »

The time has come. Jack takes a fortifying sip of wine and angles toward him. « _Really good, Papa. Even better now, with Bitty._ »

Bob nods. « _He seems like a very kind young man. How about the studio? Is the business going well?_ »

« _Really well,_ » Jack says, and he doesn’t even have to lie. « _We’re getting a lot of business from referrals, and we’re busy all the time. I took some Photoshop classes this fall so I can help edit, not just shoot. We still might need to hire someone part time to help out in the office._ »

« _That’s wonderful, son._ » Bob smiles at him. And, looking right into Jack’s eyes, he adds, « _I’m so proud of you._ »

He says it so simply, so sincerely, that Jack is taken aback. « _You are?_ »

« _Of course I am! You’ve forged a path for yourself, found your way. I was worried about you after college — you didn’t seem happy. You seem happy now. That’s all I’ve ever wanted._ »

Jack gives him a skeptical glance. « _That’s all you ever wanted?_ »

Bob has the courtesy to look abashed. « _When you were growing up, I thought playing hockey_ did _make you happy. Obviously, I was wrong._ »

« _You weren’t wrong,_ » Jack admits. « _I did like to play hockey. But there was more to it than just playing the game, and I never could really separate the two. It still hurts sometimes, that I gave it up. But I know it was the right thing to do in the end._ »

« _Then I’m glad you did,_ » Bob says firmly. « _And I’m very glad that you found something that makes you happy without consequences. I love you, Jack._ »

« _Thank you, Papa. I love you too,_ » Jack replies, and to his horror, his eyes feel damp.

Bob allows him to cover it with a sip of wine, then he claps his hands and says brightly to the room at large. “Isn’t it dinner time yet? I can’t stand just sitting here anymore and smelling all this good food without eating it!”

In the kitchen, Bitty tucks a hand gently inside Jack’s elbow and whispers, “Is everything okay?”

His face is so sweet and concerned that Jack just has to sneak a quick kiss. “Everything is perfect,” he says, and Bitty smiles up at him.

They bring the last of the food to the table, and Jack looks around it, at the faces of the people he cares about the most smiling in the candlelight. The food seems almost secondary now, and he almost doesn’t care if the tourtiere is burned and ruined, if the salad is soggy, if the rolls are tough. He thinks now that maybe he was trying to prove to himself more than anyone else that he’s happy, but he has all the proof he needs right here.

“So,” Alicia says as she digs into her dinner. “How did you two meet?”

Jack and Bitty exchange a glance and Jack can’t help but laugh. “That, Maman, is a very long story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The version of "[Last Christmas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5VU02o-pHxY)" playing at Lardo's art exhibit is by The XX. 
> 
> I have not made the [Yule log](https://www.foodnetwork.ca/shows/great-canadian-cookbook/blog/maple-gingerbread-buche-de-noel-with-salted-praline-topping/) that Bitty brings to dinner, but I really, really want to.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to drop by and say hi on [tumblr](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Link to tumblr post [here](http://luckiedee.tumblr.com/post/181362097917/three-points-where-two-lines-meet-zimbits-fic) :)


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